


Indigo Poesy

by crystalblinks (orphan_account)



Series: Cigarettes and Paradise [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-19 23:05:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8227865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/crystalblinks
Summary: He used to draw me pictures. Back when we were young and couldn’t make money off our dances or our dreams. He’d leave sketches all over our studio apartment, on scraps of paper, on napkins, on sticky notes.





	

1\. He used to draw me pictures. Back when we were young and couldn’t make money off our dances or our dreams. He’d leave sketches all over our studio apartment, on scraps of paper, on napkins, on sticky notes. He told me once that the images would come to him in the most inconvenient of times, that his need to draw wasn’t just emotional, that it was physical.

2\. Addiction was always present in our reality. The girl who lived next door got her highs from methamphetamines, and we often found her slumped against our door, like the urge the desire was too powerful for her to make it inside. His friend, the one who’d weathered adolescence with him was dependant on Mary Jane to ease the wounds of his past. He said he was addicted to me.

3\. There was something about his eyes, the passionate blue that surrounded his pupils, the way they were electric in their nature. Everything about the color reminded me of him, the way he preferred blue ink over black, the navy blue suit he wore to every job interview. The way he’d stare at it for hours on end when he wouldn’t get the job, memorizing every line every button. He’d curse it, and wear it again to the next one.

4\. My favorite piece that he’s ever drawn is tucked into my desk, I had found it on the bathroom mirror, almost as if he’d forgotten about it, his mind racing so fast that I could never fathom catching up. Everytime I look at it now, I’m filled with an unmatched sadness, a sense of vacancy, the way the lines are faded and the edges of the paper are wrinkled with age. It’s funny to think how long ago he was, how there’s so much time in between our existence and now. 

5\. We died. allowed time to weather us, we started to rot. One too many arguments and shattered dreams will do that to a relationship, a bond. He moved out of the apartment in a flurry of shouts and shattered glass. He took his sketches with him.

6\. I moved on, found plenty of men with blue eyes and artist’s spirits, ones with hazel eyes and business degrees, the kind that wore black suits and wouldn’t be caught dead with stoners or blue ink. I moved on, but I can still recite his number by heart. Some nights I prayed that he didn’t changed it.

7\. He never changed it.

8\. He looks different now, despite the fact that his blonde hair is still blonde and his smile is the same. But his eyes, an eclectic blue they’re older and wiser in ways I wouldn’t dare to comprehend. When he sees me the first time after a long time he calls me old man and asks me how I’ve been. I don’t remember how I replied, but I remember that my heart was pleading, trying to tell him that all I’d been was empty. 

9\. He sketched me a picture today, it was stuck to the coffee machine, where he knew I’d see it. It was there to serve as a reminder that time may have passed and space has changed and morphed into something brand new and magnificent. But our love, no matter how many days it has lived, or how many days we spent searching for it, hasn’t changed at all.

**Author's Note:**

> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/saphireandbrokenglass


End file.
